The Renegade
by RosieAnnieUSA
Summary: A sheriff new to the job should have been more careful about what he wished for. Written for a challenge.


The night was quiet. There were no sounds but the steady rhythm of footsteps outside on the wooden sidewalk. The boards creaked softly with each step in a reassuring pattern. Sheriff Berger turned his head slightly to listen. A satisfied smile crept across his face. The regular footsteps meant that Deputy Wilson was guarding the jail and its famous prisoner as he'd been told to do.

Berger turned his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk. When he became sheriff two months ago, he'd imagined himself as the hero of a dime novel, keeping his town safe from bad men who threatened civil order. Instead, he shuffled paper and broke up fights between drunken cowboys. Not exactly the stuff of dime novels. He'd actually prayed for some excitement, maybe for some famous outlaw to show up in this sleepy one-horse town. No one was more surprised than he when his prayers were answered yesterday.

He pushed himself up from his cluttered desk and walked over to the cell block. The prisoner sat on his bunk, playing solitaire.

"Ain't you tired of that game yet?"

The prisoner moved cards silently.

"Hey you! I asked you a question, and I expect an answer. Can't you hear me?"

"I hear you," the prisoner said calmly. "It is impossible to not hear you, even though I try. I simply choose not to answer an ignorant question." He looked up at Berger. "If I were tired of the game, I would not be playing it. You have your answer. Are you happy now?"

"Happier than you, I expect. You're the one going on trial for armed robbery. And you're the one who'll be sitting in a jail just like this one for the next 20 years, where all you low-down bank robbers belong."

The prisoner turned his attention back to his cards, shuffling and laying out another game of solitaire.

"You ain't so big now, are you, Big Jim? You think the Devil's Hole Gang's fixin' to rescue you? Well, .they ain't a'comin'. Me and my deputy, we been keeping a sharp eye on everyone in this here town, and we ain't seen hide nor hair of them renegades."

"My men are not renegades; they are thieves. There is a difference. And of course you would not see them. I have trained them better than that."

"Too bad nobody trained you better, or you wouldn't be sitting where you are right now."

Dark brown eyes flicked briefly towards Berger.

"Everything in life is temporary, Sheriff. Everything changes." He put the cards down on the bunk and leaned back against the cold brick wall. "For example: the sheriffs in this town change regularly. This is a new job for you, is it not? You are the fifth man to take the job in one year, I believe."

"What of it? It don't make no difference what them others did. I'm here to stay."

"Oh, you are, are you? It is good to have a goal."

"I know what you're thinking. You're wrong."

"You have the ability to read my mind? That is impressive."

"Don't pull that with me, Santana. I'm smarter than you." Santana's composed expression seemed like defiance to Berger.

"I do know what you're thinking. You're thinking sheriffs come and go because of you and your damned Devil's Hole Gang, running roughshod over this whole territory. That's all over now. With you in prison, that gang'll be running around like a chicken with its head cut off."

"You are welcome to think so," Santana said. His calm voice only served to irritate Berger more. "Change happens to all of us, does it not? This situation where we find ourselves now, you outside the bars and me within, even that is subject to change." He picked up his playing cards again and started shuffling. "Let me advise you. Never count on anything to remain the same. Never." Suddenly, he smiled. "Especially if you are a sheriff in this town."

"The hell with you, Santana." Berger strode quickly back to his desk. He was surprised to realize that he was breathing hard. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and consciously took some deep, slow breaths. Quiet surrounded him. Maybe too quiet? Straining, he listened hard for suspicious sounds, but he heard nothing, not even his deputy pacing back and forth on the boards outside. Berger stood up suddenly, angry all over again. _If that idiot Wilson's sleeping on the job instead of patrolling, I'll throw him into the cell with Santana._ He walked rapidly to the front door, unlatched the bolts, and yanked the door open. Deputy Wilson stood motionless on the sidewalk, eyes wide and staring at seemingly nothing.

"What're you doing standing there like a cigar store Indian, Wilson?" A small blond man holding a shotgun stepped out from behind the deputy, startling Berger.

"What the hell - " but before he could finish his sentence, he heard an ominous click and felt cold metal touch his neck. A quiet voice whispered close to his ear.

"He's stayin' alive, Sheriff. If'n you want to do the same, you'll be real quiet."

"Who are you? What do you want?" Berger asked. "If you're looking to rob us, go right ahead, but we ain't got much money. We work for the city."

"Right now, Sheriff," the deep whispering voice went on, "I want you to shut your mouth." Berger complied, swallowing hard. The whispering voice moved against his ear again, so close that Berger felt the man's warm breath.

"Now. One of my men is gonna put on your deputy's hat and jacket, and he's going to take over guarding the jail. Then the rest of us, we're going go inside real quiet-like." Another, taller man came around from behind the whisperer and took the coat and hat from an unresisting Wilson.

The cold gun barrel tapped lightly against Berger's neck. "Open the door. Quietly."

Once inside, Berger heard the door shut behind him and the bolts click into place. The gun moved away from his neck, and a flat hand between his shoulders pushed him forward, hard. He had to grab the corner of his desk to keep from falling.

"You two lawmen stand at either side of the desk. Then you're both going unhook your gun belts, using only two fingers, and my friend here is going to take them from you." As they awkwardly loosened their gun belts, Santana rose silently from his cot to watch.

"Sit down in them two chairs, and put your hands on the arm rests, where we can see them. Keep your eyes on the floor." Berger's mind was racing. They were two against two, at least inside, but the outlaws had the guns and the advantage. He was torn between wishing someone would come by unexpectedly and rescue them, and the fear that someone would come by unexpectedly and rescue the new sheriff and his deputy. He'd never be able to live down that shame.

The outlaw brought his gun under Berger's chin, forcing him to raise his head slowly. He saw dusty boots, then a slim figure in denims and black shirt, and finally a young man's bronze face under a black hat adorned with silver lightning bolts. An Indian, but dressed like a white man. Berger couldn't figure which tribe. Probably didn't matter none. He didn't know many Indians, but he'd heard the stories. He did his best to hold his gaze steady and not show the fear he felt. The Indian studied his face for a minute, and then smiled. Deep dimples appeared in his dark cheeks.

"Now, Sheriff, you're probably wondering why I've invited you to come inside and talk with me tonight."

"The thought did cross my mind right about the time you held a gun to my head. But then, putting a gun to a white man's head is what you Injuns like to do."

The Indian laughed. He pushed his hat high onto his head, revealing large brown eyes.

"Speaking of pointing guns, I'm going to ask my associate to take yours over to Mr. Santana while I keep an eye on you and your deputy. That'll improve the odds for me a little bit." The little blond man in the floppy hat took Berger's cherished Colt to Santana, who nodded his thanks and spun the chamber before pointing the gun steadily at the captives.

"Now, Sheriff. Why we're here. It's not only for the joy I get watching you trying not to wet your pants while I hold this here Schofield on you. The honest truth is, we came here to make a withdrawal, but don't you worry none; we're going to make a deposit, too. We're going to withdraw Big Jim, and once we do that, we're going to deposit you and your deputy."

"You mean, you're not gonna kill us?" Wilson asked. His voice shook.

"Shut up, Wilson! You sound like an idiot."

"I heard what them renegade Comanches do. Please don't kill me. Please. I don't wanna die."

"Stop it, Wilson! You're acting like a little girl!"

"Rest your mind, boys," the Indian said. "The Devil's Hole Gang don't believe in killing folks." He shook his head sadly. "I have to resist temptation all the time, don't I, Jim?"

"It is true that my men do not kill," Santana said from his cell. "I do not allow it."

"Lucky for you. Now. My associate is going to get one of those handcuffs you kindly left hanging on the wall there by the wanted posters and cuff you and your deputy together." While the blond handcuffed the unhappy lawmen together, the Indian pointed his gun at the trembling Wilson.

"Where are the keys to the cell?"

"Bottom right drawer in the desk."

"Good answer." He looked over at the blond outlaw, who retrieved the keys and unlocked the cell. Santana came out, still holding his stolen gun steadily.

"There's the withdrawal. Now, gentlemen, kindly walk into the cell and sit down on the bunk." When they hesitated, the Indian raised his gun in an unmistakable threat.

"Santana said he wouldn't let you kill us," Wilson protested.

"That is true," Santana said. "Kill, no. Maim, yes. So please, gentlemen. It is in your best interest to follow orders." Slowly, the handcuffed lawmen walked into the cell and sat down, side by side, on the uncomfortable cot.

"One last thing. We're going to have to gag you." The Indian held up one hand to forestall any comments. "We can't have you calling for help. We need a little time to get back to the Hole before any alarm is raised." The little blond outlaw holstered his gun and tightened the captives' own bandannas over their mouths while the Indian and Santana watched.

Santana closed the heavy iron cell door slowly, then turned the big skeleton key to set the lock. The lawmen could only watch in despair. Santana had already walked away a few steps with his rescuers when he stopped as if remembering something. He turned quickly and went back to stare at the unhappy men imprisoned in their own jail.

"Do you remember what I said to you earlier about how things change rapidly, Sheriff?" Berger couldn't bring himself to acknowledge Santana. Yeah, he remembered. He was almost glad he was unable to say anything. He wanted to curse and scream at Santana and that renegade Indian and that blond man with the tobacco-stained grin. More than that, he wanted to pound his own head against some hard surface. This could have happened to anyone, but it had happened to him, and the citizens of this town, and the men who had chosen him for this job, would never let him forget it. He would need to find a new job. Again. He squinted his eyes shut; he couldn't bear watching his prisoner leave with his rescuers. Their footsteps echoed on the floor until he heard the big front door open and shut. He was left with silence and his bitter thoughts.

Outside, Santana followed his men as they led him around the building to a back alley, where four horses were tied up. As the men unhitched their horses, Santana crossed over to the slender Indian, putting one hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low voice.

"Thank you, Hannibal. You have done better than I could have hoped. There is only one thing that I question."

"Only one?"

"For now. Why did you darken your skin to look like an Indian? Those men still got a good look at you."

"They did, Jim, and what they saw was an Indian. A renegade, like that sheriff said. He didn't notice my eyes or my hair color or my build, nothing like that. He saw an Indian, and that's all he'll remember. I could play poker with him all night without this war paint on my face, and he'd never recognize me.

"Besides," Heyes added, "it probably don't matter if them two recognize me. I'd lay odds there'll be a new sheriff here, real soon. Maybe even tomorrow."

Santana laughed. "I am glad you are on my side, Hannibal Heyes."

5


End file.
